Walking toward the library, I pass three children
staring down at a dead crow and daring each other
to poke it with a stick.
I stop, too, because I know a little about crows -
how, for instance, they are different from ravens.
I could tell these well-dressed children that:
ravens are black a with purple tint while crows
are denied that royal hue. A crow's tale is squared-off
like the crew-cut on the boy at Menchie's who hands
them the expensive frozen yogurt
while a raven's tale is triangular, a shape discovered
by the Persians and beloved by the 17th century
mathematician Blaise Pascal. Furthermore, ravens
love solitude and prefer remote hills and woods
while a crow will perch on a stop sign and brag
about it endlessly.
But that isn't what they are concerned about.
They want to know about Death. And for that
I would have to fetch the skull from my desktop
and ask the sun to hide its face behind a dark,
galleon-shaped cloud and then -
Oh, wait. They're offering me the stick. All
they really want to know is will I poke the corpse.
Of course. And when I do and it moves, they
run away shrieking and delighted. More alive,
if possible, than before.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem